Ansel longs for the high places,
for Half Dome and El Capitan,
for the frantic call of the Clark's nutcracker.
Treasures of the heart, of the memory,
of standing on the one inch of earth
that feels like home.
He does not dance in San Francisco.
His workingman's clothes feel like cold
lead against his skin.
Bank statements, hungry mouths, hold him
at the bay.
He wonders if life would have been better
as a concert pianist. Would the applause
have tamed his skyward gaze, his longing for silence,
for his own art?
There is no looking back, but in the throws of pain,
fatigue and frustration, he fears he will never
reach the summit,
be able to pull himself up and capture
the vista one more time. Or is too late?
Has he kept one foot in the river too long?
Ansel longs for the high places.
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